


Joy

by pandizzy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:12:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: The king's only joy after the queen's death.





	Joy

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at angst!!!!!

His grief is something to behold.

 

Jon thought he understood pain, mourning tearing your insides apart and you can't think and your tears burn your eyes. It's what he felt when Maester Aemon told him about Bran and Rickon, when all his agents could learn about Arya were rumors of sightings here and there. He thought he understood grief.

 

It's different with Sansa, however.

 

He maintains a strong face, for the children and for their realm. They all seem to be in pain, mourning in their own little way. Brandon cries until he can't breathe, and he has to push his fingers into his son's mouth to force his jaw open, telling him to take a deep breath. He bites his fingers, drawing blood, and Jon doesn't care; Robb acts out more than usual, stealing from the servants and hitting his younger brothers. Jon tries to control him, even when the kicks are destined at him. He hugs his son, whispering in his ear that all will be well and holds his arms until he calms himself enough to go to sleep; Lyanna tries to take over the empty slot. She cleans Eddard’s face with a handkerchief, ignoring Jon when he says that the nurses will do it for her. After a kitchen maid finds her sewing back Rickard’s clothes, or attempting to, he is forced to keep her away from the nursery. He will not have his daughter replace her mother, she is still a child after all; The twins, Eddard and Rickard, toddle after every woman with enough red on their head, calling after her.  _ Mama, mama, mama _ . Jon doesn't know what to do with them.

 

And the realm? The North seems to crumple without Sansa’s gentle hand to guide it, despite what his advisors say.

 

He tries to stay strong, while everything falls apart around him. He  _ needs  _ to stay strong. For everyone else.

 

There is a moment, right after waking up, that Jon forgets. He forgets that his wife is dead, that he'll have to raise their children without her and that it's his fault that she is gone. After the moment ends and realization dawns on him, usually after finding that the side next to him in bed is cold, his grief is almost new.

 

Jon sobs, tears that he held it in during the entirety of the previous day, clutching one of her dresses to his chest. He usually has half a mind to spend the rest of the morrow in bed, but he can't, not when he needs to atone for what he has done.

 

It  _ is  _ his fault that Sansa is dead. Maester Wolkan said, he said in clear words, that a new child could kill her, that another pregnancy might take her life, but she was desperate, desperate to replace what they had lost.

 

_ Four boys and two girls.  _ That's what she told him when trying to trap him between her legs.  _ We need to have four boys and two girls. It's the only way.  _ He understood what she meant immediately. Six Stark children, four boys and two girls, like it was with them.

 

There was a time where Jon wanted the same, before he discovered that Sansa was still alive, after Ygritte, when he thought he was the last. He wanted children to replace the family he lost. Sons named Robb and Brandon and Eddard. After he found his sister-turned-cousin and married her, he was sure that he would gain it.

 

But not if it meant losing Sansa, his wife, his queen and his mate. So he abstained, sleeping in his own chambers for the first time in years and keeping himself in his breeches. She got upset, of course, that he would try to thwart her plans as such, but he preferred her angry and alive than happy and dead.

 

“Please, Jon,” she said once, after he pulled away another time, “Just this once. One more, that's all I ask.”

 

“I can't.” he crossed his arms, angry at her and himself. “It will be my fault if you die. Mine. I will be condemned to the seven hells for this, for killing a mother and my kin. You heard Maester Wolkan.”

 

“Maester Wolkan said it  _ could  _ happen, not that it would,” she murmured, her skirts scraping against the floor as she rose and walked to him, “I'm strong. I can give you another daughter. I can give her to  _ us _ . Think how Lyanna would be happy with a little sister, to brush her hair and dress her up like one of her little dolls.”

 

He thought of Lyanna, their third child and only daughter. She was so close to Sansa, following her around and eagerly learning every ladylike lesson that her mother seemed to have in store from her, even ignoring Jon’s clumsy attempts to teach her how to wield a sword. She would be happy with a sister. All of them would.

 

It was difficult not to admit that he wanted it. Sansa was healthy and strong. Rarely ill, always robust. Every birth before the twins only had the joys, not the sadness. It would be easy to give in and have her way. His arousal came quickly when he thought of their last coupling. It had been a very long time.

 

She touched his shoulders and turned him around. He let himself be maneuvered, weak after resisting her for days without end. After learning she could no longer have children, Sansa seemed determined to become with child once more.

 

“It will be my fault,” he sobbed as she kissed him, her hands unlacing the front of her blue gown.

 

“Everything will be alright,” she whispered, taking his hand and putting over her left breast. 

 

It was one night, one night only, but it was enough. Despite his prayers and promises of redemption, Sansa fell pregnant.

 

He wakes up with a heavy heart after a night of mulling over. Sansa was dead, gone after three days of laboring and bleeding, but the child was still here. Still alive. Still strong. His daughter breathed and thrived, unlike so many other children born from dying mothers.

 

Jon keeps himself away from the nursery, afraid that he might hate the little girl, that he might blame her in an attempt to relieve himself of the burden, but he couldn't be away for much longer. It's not what  _ she  _ would want.

 

He dresses himself, alone. Without Sansa to help him, Jon started choosing less fashion-like clothing. Before, he did it only to please her, to seem worthy of standing beside such a beautiful woman. Now, it doesn't matter how many layers he puts on, for he feels as naked and as vulnerable as ever.

 

His steps lead him to the nursery. It's early, but the castle is trembling with life, small voices reaching him before he can even see them. For a moment, Jon thinks his children are excitedly talking amongst themselves, there is a laugh amongst the screams, but that changes when Lyanna’s voice becomes louder than the other.

 

“Stop!  _ Stop it!  _ Robb, give her back!”

 

Jon turns and sees them. His second son, at age twelve, is a whole head taller than his eight year old sister. Robb takes advantage of that, holding her favorite doll over them with his long arms. Lyanna is straining on her toes, trying to reach. Her gray eyes are shining with tears.

 

“Stop crying,” Robb says, frowning, “It's just a game. Don't be such a babe. Are you a babe, Lya? Tell me. Are you?”

 

He pinches her, a devilish smile on his fair face, and that is enough.

 

“What is happening here?” he asks, standing next to his daughter. Lyanna is tiny and she leans on to him, her tears shining in her red cheeks.

 

“Robb took Mya,” she says, fisting her hands on her blue dress, “He said he'll thrown her on the fire!”

 

“I'm not doing anything!” answers Robb, still holding Mya close to his chest, like one would do with a hostage, “I just wanted to play, father.”

 

Jon sighs. Robb has always been like this; lying and teasing his brothers and sister with a shade of cruelty behind his actions. Sansa could always deal with him, make him calm down with kind words and dissipate his anger.

 

He is terrible at this without her.

 

“Return your sister’s doll,” he says, stern, “And go to your rooms. We'll speak later.”

 

“But, father—”

 

“ _ Now _ , Robb.”

 

Robb huffs, throwing the doll on the floor and walks away, stomping. Lyanna is quick to take Mya between her tiny hands, smoothing her torn purple dress and frowning at the bald spot between her dark curls. His son is very violent.

 

Jon crouches at her side, being at eye-level with his daughter, and sighs.

 

“He is so mean,” says Lyanna, pouting.

 

“Yes,” answers Jon, “He is.”

 

“Why is he like that, father?” she asks, raising her eyes to look at him, “I did nothing to him.”

 

She looks so much like Sansa. Her coloring is all his but the rest of Lyanna is her mother. Her cheeks, her hands, her nose, her ears. Jon is lucky to still have a part of his wife in his children.

 

“He is sad,” he starts, trying to explain his son’s actions and not upset his daughter at the same time, “And that makes him angry. Robb is terrible with expressing his feelings, so he acts out. Causes trouble. Because he wants people to notice his pain.”

 

“That's stupid,” she says, cradling her doll against her chest, “He can just talk to us. He doesn't need to ruin my favorite doll.”

 

“I know, love,” Jon murmurs as softly as he can, “I'm sorry.”

 

“Mother gave her to me,” Lyanna tells him, cleaning her tears with her sleeve, “She said I could play with Mya before my little sister arrived, so that I would learn how to be gentle.”

 

Jon smiles. He can almost imagine Sansa handing the toy to Lyanna, smiling and caressing her cheek as she murmurs what is it for. His wife could never give a gift without a thought behind it.

 

“Why don't you go ask your dresser to fix her for you?” he says, helping her stand up, “I'm sure Nalla has some brown yarn left.”

 

Lyanna smiles, hope filling her gray eyes again, and nods fervently, “Good idea, father!”

 

She hugs him, happily, and runs away. Jon smiles. It's good to see her so cheerful again.

 

He turns. The heavy wooden door leading to the nursery is in front of him. He sighs, breathing deeply, and takes a step forward. Jon knows what he must do.

 

A nurse is rocking Eddard near his cot, while another sits in a chair, the front of her dress unlaced, as she cradles a redheaded babe on her teat. Jon feels a sort of irritated annoyance at seeing her there, feeding his daughter. Sansa never wanted to use a wet nurse. She hated seeing her children in the arms of another woman.

 

Sansa is gone though, he forces himself to remember, and the princess needs to be cared for.

 

The first maid notices him, putting Eddard down to sleep and curtseying. She is an old worker at Winterfell, hired by Sansa for the birth of Lyanna, and knows him before his pain, his sadness and coldness. The second one, however, only understands that the king keeps himself away from his daughter and he can't help but wonder what she thinks of him.

 

“Please leave me alone with my children,” Jon says, highly.

 

The wet nurse narrows her eyes almost slightly, pressing his daughter protectively against her chest for half a breath before realizing that he was the king. She sets the princess down in her cot, fixing her dress, and leaves the room with a curtsey.

 

Jon walks to Eddard first. His son is sleeping with his mouth open, chubby fists holding tight a stuffed wolf. Jon strokes his dark hair and the babe smiles, deep in his sleep.

 

Rickard is next. He likes to sleep with a blanket over his head, feet dangling and exposed on the bed. Jon takes his favorite toy, fallen on the cold ground, and puts it next to his hand.

 

“What will you do if it's a boy?” he asked, a long time ago.

 

Sansa frowned, stroking her swollen belly, and sets her needlework down. It's a white dress, with golden embroideries on the hem.

 

“It's not a boy,” she said, “It's a girl. I'm sure of it.”

 

Jon felt a need to roll his eyes, but he didn't. It would only make her more upset.

 

“Yes, but what if it is?” He wanted her to see as he did. To understand what was at stake. “Will you risk your life once more and have another child after this one?”

 

“It's not a boy,” she insisted, “Why can't you see that I'm doing this for us? You were so happy when Lya was born and so was I. I want this feeling again. I want another girl.”

 

Jon left his chair near the hearth and walked to her, dropping to his knees in front of Sansa. Her eyes widened slightly.

 

“Why can't  _ you  _ see?” he said, taking her hands between his own, “If you die, how will I live without you? How will I raise our children?”

 

He did not say that, if Sansa died, she would go to a beautiful place, dine with the gods and their forefathers, but, once he died, he would not go to the same place. Killing Sansa would condemn him to all seven hells.

 

_ Please, my love _ , he thought, desperate,  _ You are taking a path that I can't follow. _

 

“I'm not going to die,” she answered, smiling, “Jon, be happy with me. We're going to get our whole family. Can't you understand?”

 

He wanted to believe her, but he couldn't.

 

Jon walks to the third crib, feet heavy on the floor. She is awake, curious blue eyes scanning all over her surroundings. Her red hair is brushed inside a white bonnet and she is wearing a gray dress. The princess is happily shaking a silver rattle, smiling.

 

She looks at him and there is no shadow of recognition on her fair face.

 

“Hello, love,” he says, putting his hand inside the crib and touching her cheek.

 

_ There she is _ , he thinks,  _ the queen’s last hope. _

 

Sansa wanted this so much. Children. Four boys, two girls. He tried to understand why for  _ days _ and he couldn't make sense of his thoughts, but now, seeing his daughter on her cot, he finally gets it.

 

The princess is a piece of her. A piece of him. A symbol of their love. It's impossible not to love her.

 

His sons are his pride, his strength, but his daughters? His daughters are his joy.

 

Carefully, he places his hand behind her soft head and underneath her chubby bottom, taking her in his arms. She gurgles and shakes her toy, setting in his lap.

 

Jon wants to apologize for everything, for keeping himself away, for not desiring her existence, for not naming her sooner, but she gives a sweet babe sigh and he forgets what is on his mind.

 

“Your mother was my heart,” he starts, rocking her around, “My love and the grace of my life. I will tell you stories about her. How she won back the north, how she survived the War of Dawn and how she saved me.” Jon raises her slightly, pressing his lips against her forehead. “I'll be good. I promise you, Maud.”

**Author's Note:**

> In this house, we appreciate the name Maud.


End file.
